Thunder
by TheMagicalAnonymous
Summary: Four years John has been living in 221B, and in that time he has learned many things about Sherlock Holmes. His fears, for example. But what has Sherlock learned about John in that time?


"-the_ rest of the week's weather will consist of heavy rainfall, and there is to be a very strong likelihood of thunder and lightning in the south-east region of England. Citizens are advised to stay inside and only to leave their homes unless absolutely necessary. Next on the news, join us as we get a special interview with the hit boy-band, JLS, and a sneak preview of their upcoming album-"_

John switched off the TV and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

_Thunder..._

He glanced over at his flatmate who was busy fiddling with the various knobs on his favourite microscope which he had so cunningly liberated from the laboratories of St. Barts' several months ago. His greenish-blueish eyes were fixated on the lenses which magnified the tiny concoction of god-only-knows-what: completely oblivious to anything that may interfere with his work.

John re-adjusted himself into a more comfortable position on his chair, grunting as he did so.

He had been sharing 221B with Sherlock for just over four years now, and due to constant exposure to his impossibly brilliant deductions, had picked up a few of his tricks. For instance, John could tell that in the few times that Sherlock actually went to sleep, he slept facing his left. That was obvious from when he would rub his left arm in the mornings; he was trying to get the blood flowing again from when he had been lying on it.

Another thing John had picked up were Sherlock's fears. Yes, Sherlock Holmes; the man un-phased at so many bloody crime scenes, got the heebie-jeebies every now and then. After the case at Baskerville a while back, Sherlock would quicken his pace slightly when walking past a person walking their dog in the street. He also wasn't a fan of heights. After Sherlock's unexpected _rise from the dead_ just over half a year ago (and after a thorough telling off and beating from John) he convinced the nation of his innocence and was accepted (unwillingly from some) back into society. He had told John about what happened on the rooftop of Barts'. The idea that Sherlock would sacrifice himself to save John did warm his heart...

_But dear Jesus, not thunder!_

God, yes...the thunder. Sherlock was _petrified_ of thunderstorms. This was not a difficult deduction to make, as two years ago a large quell took London quite by storm (no pun intended). Whether it was a bad experience as a child, John did not know. But something about the rolling clashes of thunder shook the consulting detective right to the core.

John looked over his shoulder at his friend. He was running his right hand through his thick, black hair. John eyed the movement for a second, taking in how the light of the kitchen lamp flickered over those many, glossy curls...

_Pull yourself together, man!_

"Umm..." John began, "Sherlock-"

"-Not now. Busy." Sherlock interrupted in his usual _I'm-working-do-not-disturb voice._

John frowned and began again. "Sherlock, there's a-"

"-Busy."

John glared at him. "There's a storm-"

"YES!" The consulting detective exclaimed, leaping from his stool.

John blinked in surprise, but sighed again as Sherlock began to explain a long, and rather tedious, solution to the latest case that Lestrade had handed him. John looked away and didn't listen. Something was said about a boy, some discarded Smarties and fingernail-dirt, and how all that concluded to a woman being brutally beaten to death with a rounder's bat in Liverpool.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock chuckled deeply, "No-one noticed the hairpin."

"Sherlock..." John sighed half-heartedly.

"What?" Sherlock finally answered. _Typical him,_ John thought,_ once the job is out of the way THEN he had time to talk."_

John faced his friend, "We've got a thunderstorm headed for London."

The smug grin that came from solving a case was suddenly erased from Sherlock's face, and was replaced with his more normal _serious_ face.

"Yes." He replied almost monotonously.

"Well," John tried to continue, "You don't like thunder."

"So." Sherlock said, an edge of spite to his voice. Clearly he didn't like having his weaknesses pointed out.

"Well, I was just thinking-" John began, trying to sound softer.

"-What has it got to do with anything?" Sherlock snapped, interrupting John.

John paused, trying to say something back, but only mumbled came out of his mouth.

Sherlock lifted his chin, looking down his nose at John, what he usually did when he was angry with him. Before another word could be said, Sherlock grabbed his coat which was splayed out messily on the sofa where he had left it earlier that day, then hen his scarf, then his gloves.

John sighed and turned the telly back on as Sherlock noisily made his way down the stairs into the lobby. It was only after he heard the distinctive slam of the front door closing did John let out a loud and obnoxious belly-laugh. It was a rare thing to piss off Sherlock, and it was a damn funny sight when he succeeded in doing so. Usually it would be the opposite; Sherlock winding up John to the point where he would just grab his jacket and head off to Sarah's. But no, it was Sherlock's turn. And what's better, the News was still on with a weather reminder.

"Oh, you bloody idiot." John giggled.

It was late by the time Sherlock arrived back to the flat. John was waiting for him in the living room, sipping tea and nibbling a Chocolate Digestive which Mrs Hudson had just recently laid out for him.

John suppressed a giggle at his friend, "Not go according to plan, eh?"

Sherlock scowled back. His hair was so soaked with rain that it appeared straight, and clung to his sharp cheekbones in a most amusing manner. His heavy trench-coat was sodden through and through, and dripped water onto the carpet.

John smiled, still trying to fight back a laugh as he indicated with the hand he was holding the biscuit in to Sherlock's chair.

"Sit?" He asked politely, but with a edge of teasing in his voice.

Sherlock kept the look of contempt on his face as he walked slowly towards his favourite leather seat. But before he could sit, John quickly set down his cup and biscuit and leapt to his feet.

"Hold on! You can't sit down all drenched!" He told Sherlock, "Mrs Hudson will skin you alive if your ruin the furniture!"

Sherlock tried to protest as John tugged off his heavier-than-usual coat. It was freezing and saturated with rainwater.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he set the coat on the rack, "What were you thinking?! It's been lashing for an hour! Why didn't you come back earlier?!"

"Just needed some fresh air." Sherlock mumbled.

"...Sherlock," John said softly, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock insisted. But John frowned. Sherlock's clothes were absolutely sodden, and he had his legs curled up under his chin, his arms wrapped protectively around his shins, and he was shivering violently.

"No, you're not." John remarked. "You're freezing! Go get out of those clothes right now!"

Immediately, John regretting that choice of words.

"I mean," John tried again, flustered, "Get a dry change of clothes. I'll light a fire."

Sherlock didn't seem to pick up on John's little slip-up (to his relief), and headed off into his bedroom, leaving small water droplets on the floor; more additions to the collection of various substances that had found its' way there. Blood, chemicals, tea-stains, anything.

John dropped a small log on top of the pile of scrunched up newspapers and searched around for the matches. He knew Sherlock always kept them handy in case he was in need of a sneaky cigarette to get his brain working.

It was that moment when it happened.

_CRRRRRAAAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHH!_

The boom echoed through the flat, making John jump. _The thunderstorm wasn't meant to arrive until tomorrow! Fucking BBC weather! Always wrong!_

"JOHN!" A deep yell came from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. It sounded scared.

It might have been from his experience in Afghanistan that made John run to Sherlock's aid, or from his instincts as a friend, either way, John did not hesitate in barging into his room.

"Sherlock! You okay?" He asked.

He hadn't been in Sherlock's bedroom very often. Usually it was _out-of-bounds _for John as Sherlock didn't like anyone touching his stuff. The room was dimly lit by a small bed-side lamp which cast great, black shadows on the walls. There was a large poster of the Periodic Table on the wall to John's right, and a sizable map of London on the wall opposite. Apart from that, Sherlock's room wasn't much different to his own. Same wallpaper, same carpet, same basic furniture...but, hold on...that's new...

Sherlock's damp clothes were dumped messily in the middle of the floor, joined by a slightly sodden towel which Sherlock must have used to dry himself off. But the drawers hadn't been opened...was Sherlock naked?!

John blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light of the room. He had made a mental image of a naked Sherlock in his mind. Not an appropriate moment to do so...

"John..." Sherlock's voice came again, low and shaky this time.

John's eyes darted to the bed. Sherlock was under the covers, pulling the duvet tightly to him so that only his eyes and forehead were visible.

"I'm here, Sherlock." John said, reassuringly.

Their eyes met. Sherlock's pupils were dilated. _Out of fear,_ John concluded.

Sherlock wearily slipped his right arm out from underneath the covers and extended it to John. His heart hammered. It was the same hand extension from when he was standing on top of Barts' that time...

"Stay with me, John..." Sherlock pleaded softly.

John's eyebrows raised and his jaw dropped slightly. "S-Sherlock..." He began, completely flustered.

"Please, John," Sherlock insisted, a slight undertone of urgency in his voice.

"I-," John couldn't find the right words. Sherlock wanted him to get into bed with him, and he was NAKED! John's heart hammered, this had been his ultimate fantasy for years. But no...Sherlock didn't feel the same way about him. He couldn't. He'd end up scarring the poor man for life. He'd hate him, maybe kick him out of the flat, maybe not be his friend anymore...The very thought filled John with dread.

"I-," He began again, trying to keep his voice level, "I can't, Sherlock. I can't."

Not a heartbeat passed after John finished his sentence when another roll of thunder crashed through the flat, louder than the first. Sherlock's whole body tensed and he clenched his teeth. He made his whole head visible from beneath the sheets, and his neck. That neck...

"Please, John!" Sherlock pleaded, more desperate this time.

John felt conflicted. Half of him, no...MOST of him wanted to leap into that bed with Sherlock and comfort him all through this damn storm like the friend he was, but the other part of him was screaming for him to just walk out. But he couldn't do that...

"Please..." Sherlock said, almost defeated. His voice seemed to have dropped an octave, down to that deep level which John found oh-so irresistible...how could he refuse?!

John nodded his head and climbed into the bed with Sherlock. This immediately calmed the detective as he felt his whole body relax.

"Hold on a sec." John said, as kicked off his shoes and socks to get more comfortable. He turned back, expecting Sherlock to be curled up deep in the covers for comfort, but instead received something _very_ unexpected. Sherlock was kissing him. Hard. On the mouth.

John could barely suppress his shock. He broke away suddenly.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, "What are you-"


End file.
